


Triage

by 4wholecats



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Shin Monshou no Nazo | Fire Emblem: New Mystery of the Emblem
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Eye Trauma, Gen, Injury, Kinda but not really, Other characters mentioned - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-18
Updated: 2017-08-18
Packaged: 2018-12-17 02:45:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11842344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/4wholecats/pseuds/4wholecats
Summary: “What happened to your face?” Marth asked. Sirius didn’t answer.Marth visits the medical tent after a rough battle.





	Triage

Marth makes a habit of visiting the medical tent. After every battle, he picked himself up off the ground and trudged back to camp, making a beeline for that familiar expanse of white canvas. Immediately after entering, clerics descend on him, every one asking “where it hurts” and “if he needs assistance”. It’s kind of them, but he waves them off every time.

 

He hates to say it, but he is not here for them or their attention. He is here for the body count. 

 

The entrance to the large tent is crowded with soldiers, all sporting minor injuries. Marth off-handedly counted several broken fingers, some ugly cuts and bruises, and at least one nasty burn that he can smell, even from several feet away. The prince pushed his way through the group, further back into the tent. Offhandedly, he noticed the lack of clerics coming to assist him.

 

The count must be high today.

 

He’s near the middle of the tent is where he finds Yuliya, one of the younger clerics. She’s just a child, but she diligently hovers over a soldier who has what appears to be a broken arm. Marth waited until she had finished setting and binding the limb to approach her. 

 

“That was a rough battle today,” He said, catching her attention. Her white uniform is stained lightly pink and her hands are wet from repeatedly washing and re-washing blood off of them. She runs her fingers through her hair and sighs, not meeting his eyes.

 

“It was, sir,” She waived forward the next soldier. It’s Gordin, and Marth is glad to see that the archer only has some minor cuts on his face. They probably won’t even scar. 

 

“Would you mind if I went to the back?” He asked her as she rummaged around in her pack for a vulnerary. She glanced up at him and shook her head.

 

“My lord, you know you don’t have to ask permission for that. I’ve never said no before,” shesaid as she carefully bandaged Gordin’s face.

 

“I know, but there could always be an exception,” He shruged and the young princess smiled.

 

Marth bid her farewell and continued farther back into the tent. There are bedrolls laid out on the ground, and on almost every one is a soldier. These soldiers are more injured than the ones crowding the entrance, and he could see the pain on all of their faces as he walked by, tallying up in his head who will be able to fight in the next battle and who will not.

 

The back of the medical tent is separated from the front by a thick canvas curtain, which Marth pushed aside with his hand. To his left, there is a single raised wooden bed surrounded by tables,the surfaces of which are covered in all sorts of staves, bandages, and other medical supplies; a makeshift operating room. There is no one on the bed right now, but a lone cleric is peeling red sheets off the wooden surface, making Marth’s stomach turn. 

This section of the tent is for the heavily injured. Here is where the clerics put those who won't be able to fight again for a long time, out of sight and somewhat out of mind. There are fewer helpers back here because the badly wounded are not a priority; if you can’t fight then you won’t be cared for as well. Marth hated that philosophy, but he didn’t not argue against it. Staves and vulneraries are hard to come by, and it makes little sense to waste one on someone who might not make it. 

 

Each bedroll is separated by a curtain to give the occupants privacy. Marth remembers having to spend a few nights here himself at the start of the war after taking a few too many hits. That week had been a painful haze, and even coming back here made his scars ache. He pulled aside curtains and greeted those who were awake, but his attention was brought to the sound of voices at the very back of the tent. He felt his way through the curtains towards the them.

 

“Please sir, you have to let me look,” That must be a cleric. There was a hiss of pain and the cleric made another concerned noise.

 

“No, I will not remove my mask,” said the other voice. Marth rounded the corner (this place really was a maze) to find Sirius hunched over in a chair, speaking with an elderly bishop. One of the younger man’s hands was tightly wrapped around his midsection, and there was blood leaking out from under his white mask. Both of them looked extremely distressed, though for very different reasons. They looked at the prince, the bishop exasperated and Sirius unreadable. 

 

“Maybe I can handle this?” Marth said, letting go of the curtain and stepping forward into the small space. The bishop made a noise that clearly said “well good luck” and left, leaving the two alone. Sirius stared pointedly at the ground and Marth sighed, taking a minute to get a good look at the other man. 

 

Sirius was covered in bandages, clearly having already visited the operating room. There was blood on his pants and his coat was hanging sadly off his shoulders. His left hand was pressed firmly into the spot where the bandages were thickest, and Marth could see blood already starting to run through his fingers. His other hand secured the mask protectively. Over all, he looked miserable, like this was the worst day in his life. Marth tried to gather his thoughts and say something cohesive.

 

“Should you be awake right now?” he managed to say after almost a full minute of silence. Sirius shifted a little and grimaced again.

 

“Probably not.”

 

“What happened?”

 

“Some wyvern knights caught me off guard. I don’t do well against axes,” Sirius answered, clear and to the point. More blood dribbled past his nose.

 

“What happened to your face?” Marth asked. Sirius didn’t answer.

 

“Sirius.”

 

Nothing

 

“Sirius you’re bleeding. Please let the cleric look at your face.”

 

“No,” the other man said firmly, “I can handle it myself”.

 

“At least tell me what happened?” Marth tried. He didn’t want this to come to blows, but he was more than willing to ‘gently persuade’ the man if necessary. Sirius sighed.

 

“My mask… was damaged. I think some of it might have cracked. It’s not worth checking over; I’ll be fine.” 

 

“Sirius.”

 

“I’m FINE.”

 

Marth crossed his arms. Apparently this trip to the medical tent would take longer than originally anticipated. 

 

“Sirius you can’t even stand, never mind heal yourself. I know you want to keep the mask on but… you’ve gotta think logically here.”

 

Marth sighed again when the man in front of him did not respond.

 

“I won’t tell anyone, and I’ll make sure the clerics don’t tell anyone either,” the prince added in a low voice. Sirius looked up at him, but because of the mask, his expression was unreadable. Then, like a building collapsing in on itself, he slumped forward in defeat.

 

“Please get the cleric,” he whispered, but Marth was already out of the room.

 

It took only a few seconds to locate the bishop from before, and together, he and Marth each took one of Sirius’s arms and led him to the operating room. It was thankfully still empty, most of the worst injuries taken care of. Sirius half-sat half-leaned on the wooden table, mumbling something about feeling dizzy.

 

“Well I’m not surprised,” The bishop scoffed, “Head injuries can be rather dangerous.” The healer swatted away Sirius’s hand in order to undo the mask’s clasps.

 

Out of respect, Marth lowered his eyes to the table in front of him, mindlessly sorting the empty vulnerary bottles that sat there. 

 

“Well now that’s nasty,” The cleric whistled behind him. “Lord Marth, could you hand me that?” He asked, pointing at an abandoned piece of clean cloth on one of the tables. Marth obliged, stealing a glance at Sirius on the way.

 

He looked different than Marth remembered him. Of course, that had been more that five or six years ago, but he still looked...off. His hair was longer, his face was thinner, and his eyes were unnaturally glassy under the blood. His right eyebrow had been practically serrated off his face and Marth could see little pieces of the shattered mask still embedded in his skin.

 

It takes a while for the cleric to finish his work, but finally all the little metal slices are sitting on the table and the last of the gauze has been used up. One of Sirius’s eyes is bandaged shut, but the bishop told them that it wouldn’t be permanent and then promptly shoved both of them out of the room. Marth helped Sirius back to one of the empty cots with difficulty, since the man was heavy and even more delirious than before.  

 

Marth deposited Sirius on the floor as gently as he could and turned towards the exit. He heard rustling behind him and looked to see Sirius sitting up with one hand over his face.

 

“Thank you,” He said quietly. Marth nodded respectfully and then left, closing the privacy curtain behind him.

 

“You are quite welcome, General.”

**Author's Note:**

> uhhhhh hey guys what's up? i'm struggling my way through new mystery, so nothing new here TAT!
> 
> have i mentioned i love sirius


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